The Islam Quintet

by Tariq Ali

  His thoughts were interrupted by Mayya, anxious to inspect the gift Balkis had sent him. She held the tunic against her own body, but it was too large.

  ‘She was always good at making clothes, but let us see how it fits you.’

  He rose and changed tunics. The silk clung to his body.

  ‘It fits you perfectly. Balkis has not forgotten your body.’

  Still he did not speak, but did not change back into his old clothes. He smiled vacantly at his wife.

  ‘When will you go and see Walid in Venice?’

  ‘After I have finished my Formulary.’

  ‘And when will that be? When Afdal is five or ten?’

  ‘It might be sooner if I was not interrupted so often.’

  ‘I came to discuss our daughter. I can’t believe you have agreed that she can marry Thawdor’s son.’

  ‘Because he is poor?’

  ‘Well, not that, but ...’

  ‘What other reason could there be? Breeding, of course. Let me tell you that Thawdor’s forebears included men who ruled this island hundreds of years ago. I would not compare his lineage with yours or mine, leave alone that of your brother-in-law.’

  ‘If that is your opinion I will not object any further.’

  ‘Mayya, I want our daughter to be happy. I will give them money to build a house wherever they wish.’

  ‘I do not wish her to leave Palermo.’

  ‘That, too, will be her choice and not ours.’

  When she left the room, he looked at the shelves and sighed. If he did leave Palermo or Siqilliya these books would have to travel with him. He would never leave them behind. Realising it would be difficult to take them all, he began to make lists in his head of the books he would not miss. He might not be able to convince Mayya or Balkis to leave with him, but the books had no choice.

  The silk tunic caressing his body made him think of Balkis, a mother for the first time. Her son would become the centre of her existence and she would settle down in the palace till she felt it was time to reproduce once again.

  He took up her letter.

  Muhammad,

  I had thought of so many different names for you, but they sounded silly when written down and I wasted a lot of papyrus. They can only be spoken, so you will have to wait. I never thought the pain of separation could hurt so much till I left you three months ago. It did not only hurt me inside, but on the way back I developed a headache, a really bad one that had never ailed me before. What does the physician recommend? Don’t suggest a cold infusion of almonds, milk and honey. It does not work.

  I sit and write a few lines to you each day so that when the time comes I can add a line about our child. Sometimes I become tearful at the thought of it not knowing that you are his real father. Will we ever tell him? I can hear your voice: given your husband has been so kind and considerate why deny him the pleasure of pretending this is his child. And of course I agree, but .... And Mayya? How is she and how are you together? Has the child been born? Boy or girl?

  It was an awful journey to Siracusa with a storm at sea near Messina, where we were forced to spend the night after leaving Palermo. I remembered our journey together. It must have taken the same time but it felt so quick. I suppose being heavy with your child doesn’t improve one’s humour. In Siracusa I thought of you a great deal and for some days could not eat any food. My kind and considerate husband was close to sending you a message asking you to join us, but however much I would have loved that, I thought of Mayya and her state and knew it was wrong. So I stopped him. He makes no demands of me and I know he has a woman in the palace who serves his needs. I think he told you about her. I’m pleased because it was not pleasant when he came to my bed. He is so fat and apart from the physical discomfort I also suffered a mental strain. Does the silk tunic fit you well?

  There are so many things I wanted to discuss with you in Palermo, but we became so absorbed in each other that there was no time for lofty discussions. I wanted to ask what you thought of the poetry of Ibn Hamdis. I’m really angry with myself for never asking you. My husband—but you probably know this—belongs to the same family and we have all his poems in the library and some of them in very fine editions. You see, I’m even beginning to use your language! Some of them I find too sentimental. He was not ‘banished from paradise’. He left. I mean, if he was going to miss Siqilliya so much, why did he go in the first place and then why not come back and re-live the pleasures of his youth? His brothers stayed. The family estate is intact. So his memories of Siqilliya do not excite me, though you try saying that to a Siracusan. Can you imagine my husband, who has calmly accepted that we are lovers and that you are the father of the son who will inherit his estates, who has never spoken a harsh word to me, became red with anger when I told him that Ibn Hamdis was not a very good poet compared to Ibn Quzman, Ibn Hazm and Abu Nuwas. He shouted, called me ignorant and left the room like a mountain on fire. Later he came and apologised. A few days after this occurred, I found a poem by Ibn Hamdis that really made me laugh. I wanted you to laugh with me, but you were not here. Read the words aloud to yourself and imagine both of us inside your silk tunic:

  A cloistered nun unlocked her convent,

  and we were her night visitors.

  The fragrance of a liquor brought us to her,

  one that revealed to your nose her secrets ...

  I placed my silver on her scale,

  and from the jug she poured her gold.

  We offered betrothal to four of her daughters,

  so that pleasure might deflower their innocence.

  I want to know what you think about this and his Siqilliyan poems.

  Muhammad, last night I was told an awful story and could not sleep. My husband came to see if I needed anything and with him was his awful sister who you and I spoke of once before. She is very tall with a large cucumber of a nose, breasts the size of water-melons and a loud, grating voice and I’ve always wanted to suggest to her that she join a band of wandering hermaphrodites and enjoy life. She came in, looked at my son on my breast and said, ‘Praise be to Allah for this miracle.’ It was on the edge of my tongue to say, ‘Praise be to Muhammad’ but I restrained myself. Then I began to feel a pain in my insides and I screamed at her to leave my chamber. The maid rushed in from next door, but it was nothing. My husband came back later to apologise for his sister. I said she was a serpent nourished by Satan. And then he sat down and told me this story, which horrified me:

  ‘She is my half-sister, Balkis, and please understand she has had a hard life. My parents did not get on with each other and my mother must have been in a state of permanent sadness. When I was eight years old my father left Siracusa and went to live in Noto for six months. My mother was far from heartbroken, as you can imagine. She committed an indiscretion with a cousin and became pregnant. When my father returned he asked whose child it was but she did not speak. He never spoke to her again. That child was my sister who you hate so much. She was not treated well in our household. I don’t think my father even spoke her name. Not once. As a result, she became our mother’s favourite. This annoyed the rest of us and we were all unpleasant to her. When many years later my father left for Palermo to conduct some business, my mother’s cousin who had fathered my half-sister returned to the house. My half-sister was seventeen years old. One night in a drunken frenzy the cousin forced himself on his daughter. She became pregnant. My mother had her lover thrown out of the house. As I remember, he was actually stoned. My brothers and I lived in that large house but had no idea what had taken place till later. They tell me herbal concoctions were used to get rid of the child and they succeeded, but she never recovered. When I heard the story from a cousin, I confronted my mother. She wept and admitted it was true. She blamed my father’s coldness and cruelty and I’m sure there is some truth in that, but I always recall my father as dark visaged, tall, dignified and simple in his tastes. In any event, after learning of this tragedy, I went out of my way to be nice
to my half-sister. Like you, my brothers cannot bear the sight of her, which is unjust. She is our only sister. I don’t expect you to like her, but try and understand. She’s perfectly harmless.’

  Muhammad, my dearest and closest, isn’t that upsetting. The problem is that the woman is malicious and evil and I still hate her. I try and imagine what you would say in this situation.

  It would probably start with my kind and considerate husband....

  Muhammad, your son was born on the day the Sultan died. We have named him Hamdis ibn Aziz. This should ensure he never writes poetry. My breasts are overflowing. If your throat aches again come to me.

  Balkis

  Reading her letter agitated him and he began to rub both hands on the silk tunic. That evening he declined both food and the hammam, but Mayya assumed he was deep in his work and did not wish to be disturbed. He retired early to his bedchamber and began to pace furiously. Till then he had thought that his passion for her would gently fade and they would see each other once, perhaps twice a year. Now it suddenly struck him that it was his heart that would not tolerate such long absences.

  Perhaps he would return to Siracusa with the Amir after the Sultan’s funeral. The more he thought about it, the better this idea seemed. Elinore, Mayya and Afdal could come as well. He would go and see his grandsons near Noto, perhaps visit the village where the Trusted One had performed miracles and, above all, Balkis would not be far away. The thought improved his spirits, but still he would not take off the tunic and when, late that night, there was an urgent knock on the door he was still dressed.

  Ibn Fityan apologised for waking him up, but he wanted him to know that an incident had taken place in the gardens that evening. The young son of a Baron from Messina, barely twenty years old himself but accompanied by two or three older soldiers, had gone in search of young boys in the gardens. They were about to dishonour a boy when they found themselves surrounded by fifty men carrying short daggers and axes. The Franks fought fiercely and decapitated one opponent, but they were badly outnumbered and were overwhelmed. They were executed on the spot and the bodies were taken away and thrown into the sea.

  ‘Why is this considered serious enough to wake me early in the morning?’

  ‘When the son did not return, the Baron went in search of him. Naturally he didn’t find him and he has demanded that unless the qadi produces his son, he will take hostages from the city back to Messina.’

  ‘Intolerable and unacceptable.’

  ‘They want you to tell William that if this were to happen the city would explode and delay his coronation indefinitely.’

  ‘I will speak with him after the funeral. Ibn Fityan, was this ambush carefully prepared?’

  ‘It would appear so.’

  ‘Is there any possibility that someone might reveal the truth?’

  ‘Nobody knows who organised and carried out this attack. It is a secret organisation and they are all sworn to secrecy.’

  ‘Remarkable.’

  ‘Would you like me to help you undress?’

  Idrisi looked at himself and laughed.

  ‘I think I can manage. Peace be upon you.’

  Wide awake and alert, Idrisi undressed and made his ablutions. He began to compose a reply to Balkis in his head, but it was only half finished when he fell fast asleep. He was woken by Ibn Fityan to prepare himself for the funeral.

  The cathedral was filled and a few people had gathered on the streets, but the spectre of the martyred Philip hung over the proceedings. The Archbishop of Palermo, who conducted the obsequies, appeared to be so delighted with his role that he almost forget that it was supposed to be a sad occasion. William paid his father a glowing tribute, with more than a few of the phrases he had heard the previous day from Idrisi. Later, the new ruler summoned his old tutor to the palace. A wake had been organised and the great hall that had witnessed the humiliation of Philip was now lavish with food and wine.

  Idrisi was present for one reason alone: in detaching William from the clutches of fawning courtiers, he informed him of the situation in the old city. The young man was greatly angered at the thought of his coronation being subverted because of baronial excesses and summoned the Archbishop. The prelate, delighted at being singled out at such a distinguished gathering, nodded sagely and disappeared to do his ruler’s bidding. ‘Tell the qadi he need not worry any longer. And, Master Idrisi, I have discovered it was the Amir of Catania who farted on both occasions. Remarkable man.’

  * Plato

  SIXTEEN

  Spring in Siracusa. Good and bad poetry. Fathers and sons.

  THERE CAN BE FEW delights in the world as pleasant as a Siracusan spring. The fragrance of the lemon, orange, apricot, almond and peach blossoms pervade the city, enriched by the moist, salty sea breezes. On the hills outside the city the age-old, laboriously cultivated plantations of olive trees are being carefully inspected for the damage caused by the winter storms and lightning. The sun radiates a welcome warmth and the air is fresh, not mournful and lazy, as in summer.

  And all this is greatly enhanced when a person is in love. Since his arrival from Palermo a month ago, Idrisi and Balkis had revelled in each other’s company. There was nothing furtive in their behaviour, but were it not for the fact that they went riding openly and were sometimes accompanied by the Amir himself, there would have been an incessant wagging of tongues. The palace eunuchs and a few loyal serving women were aware that Balkis often spent the night in Idrisi’s room and, while they talked to each other, they ensured the secret remained confined to the palace.

  One glorious fresh morning, before the sun had dried the earth, she insisted they discard their sandals and walk to bathe their feet in dew, on the leaves and grass. It was one of his cures for persistent headaches and he asked if she was feeling well.

  ‘I read a bad poem by Ibn Harridis this morning while you were still asleep and it gave me a headache.’

  He smiled. ‘Balkis, you are unfair to the poet. There are some unbearable poems, but he has also written some very fine verses. You must not punish him because Aziz belongs to the same family.’

  ‘You cannot imagine the praise they reserve for him. It’s as if no other poet had existed. Aziz is more restrained, but even he insisted on naming our son Hamdis. Why are you laughing?’

  ‘I shouldn’t encourage you, but I suddenly remember a quatrain written by Ibn Hamid, one of my childhood friends from Noto.’

  ‘You never mentioned him before.’

  ‘Too many painful memories. We quarrelled before he left. He accused me of being a creature of the Sultan. I miss him greatly now and ...’

  ‘The quatrain?’

  ‘Let me try and remember. A minor poet from Noto, well-known frequenter of bars and brothels, is visiting Siracusa to sample his favourite male prostitute. He runs into Ibn Hamdis. The great poet is agitated and his clothes are ruffled. The visitor from Noto inquires politely as to the cause and a brief exchange between the two is abruptly brought to an end:

  “I have been robbed! The thieves have ruined me!”

  “I sympathise, I share your grief.”

  “They stole a batch of my own poetry!”

  “I sympathise—with the poor thief.”’

  She laughed unrestrainedly.

  ‘My headache has gone. Your cure has worked.’

  Idrisi had come prepared for a long stay, accompanied by Elinore, Ibn Thawdor, and three hundred books considered necessary for his still uncompleted work. Mayya had promised to come later when Afdal was slightly older. Idrisi’s day was carefully organised. He spent five hours in the palace library where he was surprised to find a few manuscripts by authors previously unknown to him. He was impatient with any book that contained superstitions and presented them as scientific knowledge. And there were many of these he had angrily thrust aside during the course of his work.

  The rest of the day was spent in Balkis’s company. They could talk and laugh together for hours. She accepted his balance
d critique of Ibn Hamdis and phrased her own remarks more carefully, but her basic view of the poet remained unaltered, although they agreed never to discuss the matter with the poet’s descendant.

  Elinore had begged him to let her marry as soon as possible. He had observed the young couple on the boat journey and was convinced that they were destined for each other. He asked them both whether they were happy to be married in the absence of her mother and his parents and was told that both parties had recommended this course of action. The Amir took charge of the matter and on a beautiful Sunday morning, Elinore bint Muhammad and Ibn Thawdor were married by a Bishop at a quiet ceremony in the old Byzantine church. They were assigned a set of rooms in the palace and at the feast that evening, Ibn Thawdor played the flute to mark his own wedding.

  Several weeks later a messenger arrived from Noto with a letter from Sakina, his oldest daughter, informing Idrisi that her mother had died peacefully a few days earlier. The rest of the family had gathered, with the exception of Walid, and she pleaded with Idrisi to return to the estate and decide what should be done. It was not a decision for her or anyone else.

  ‘I will have to go,’ he told Balkis. ‘I was quite content to die without seeing my house again, but Allah has willed otherwise. It is strange, but I feel nothing for the departed woman. Nothing.’